


Dying Embers

by gnosiophobic



Series: Footprints in the Snow [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ADWD spoilers, AFFC spoilers, Angst, Bittersweet, F/M, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 19:48:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnosiophobic/pseuds/gnosiophobic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Realization.</p>
<p>All the quips, insults and excuses he comfortably retreated to fell to the forest floor, unable to rise back up and convince him otherwise.  This wasn’t the same sort of thing he felt for Cersei.  No, this was much different.  This felt simple and whole.  It felt like something he didn’t deserve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dying Embers

**Author's Note:**

> Just my little one-shot contribution to my favorite pairing (and my first fic!) I'm sure it's way too fluffy and hopeful, but consider it a bittersweet wish fulfillment. Hope you like it!
> 
> The characters and universe are not mine, nor do I claim any type of ownership to them. GRRM gets all the credit here.

Somehow, she was different.  Perhaps not her beauty, for little could improve that.  Not with that enourmous purple scar marring her cheek bordered by the marks of teeth, and the burns of rope emblazoned on her neck which dutifully summoned guilt each time he chanced a look at them.  But something about her was, and as he pushed his horse harder than he had in a long while, visions of her determined eyes danced in his head.  How they blazed when she saved him time and again from the men of the Brotherhood, of the tears that welled when she thrust her sword through Lady Stoneheart’s back, and the pain behind them when she admitted there was no Sansa Stark to be found.  He should have left the wench there in a fit of anger, but he stayed.

 

Rather oddly, she had become the shining knight from songs, the paragon of honor, yet when faced with the same dilemma as he years before, she responded in kind.  Part of him knew she would never be the same for it.  He certainly wasn’t after all, but he prayed his familiar disillusionment would somehow spare her.  _Impossible for an oathbreaker_ , he knew.  Even when oaths were made to little more than a vengeful corpse.  Or a mad king.  _But she’s stronger than I was._

 

In the days before reaching the Brotherhood camp, they had grown strangely closer, even sharing a bed in the cold, along with tales of their journeys and laughter.  He tried to remember if he had ever seen her truly laugh before those nights.  Her blue eyes lit up when she did, her face softened into something not quite beautiful, but warming.  He particularly recalled the night before storming the Brotherhood camp.  Gently as he could one-handed, he nursed her wounds, and newly healing broken bones.  As he wiped the dirt and sweat from the rope-burn on her neck, he found himself inexplicably drawn to the long, gracefulness of its shape, the pale softness of it.  He had wanted to inch forward and bury himself in its unchartered innocence, forgetting what tomorrow might bring, if only for a second.  But just as he almost lost himself, she arose and walked to the fire.  He never decided if she intentionally avoided what she may have seen suggested behind his eyes, or remained conveniently oblivious, but instead settled blessed in his ignorance.  _That night had been colder than most_ , he remembered.  _As if nature pulled me closer, but warned all at once._ He had held her tightly under the furs until he heard her breaths become regular and felt her muscles go limp.  The darkness must have made him bold as he softly traced his lips across the scars and fading, blotchy freckles exposed on her neck and shoulders from where her tunic laid askew.  _Funny how the things that made her more hideous to other men make her all the more desirable to me_ , he almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.  The following morning, he managed to dismiss his actions as nothing more than done in a tired, sex-starved moment of weakness.

But upon returning to the Lannister camp, it quickly became impossible to think of anything but her eyes, her strong form, her devotion to him.  No one else would have given a second thought to slaying the Kingslayer, he knew.  No one but Brienne.  Even still, he sent her on, to find the Stark girl or her grave, whichever came first.  Just the thought of it gnawed at him now.

As the day progressed without her, he found himself clumsy in his tasks, more so than usual with one hand.  Simple questions from his bannermen were answered more often with “Hmm?” and “I’m sorry?” than actual responses, and by nightfall, he leapt on his horse and stormed into the night, caring little about what may happen when they found his tent empty yet again.

All he could see in the darkness was an image pressed firmly into his memory--her large form seated proudly upon her horse, moving further away until the trees blocked his view.  His stomach had fallen as he watched, and in that moment, he knew everything had changed.  All the quips, insults and excuses he comfortably retreated to fell to the forest floor, unable to rise back up and convince him otherwise.  This wasn’t the same sort of thing he felt for Cersei.  No, this was much different.  This felt simple and whole.  It felt like something he didn’t deserve.  While Cersei had awoke lust in him with her comely lips, Brienne awoke respect, duty, and honor with her stubborn pig-headedness.  And yet, lust didn’t mean so much to him anymore.  Neither did comely lips.  Before he left court, he remembered carefully watching the beautiful, young girls, wondering what kind of secrets, plots and lies their comely lips held, just as Cersei’s had.  Beauty seemed a mask to him now.

A sinking feeling settled when he reached a fork in the road.  He had travelled hard for hours, but still saw no sign of travelers or a camp.  Sighing, he closed his eyes and took the way he thought best, hoping that Brienne would have chosen the same path just hours before.  Fortunately, she had, and he soon found comfort in the small light of embers burning.  Ser Hyle Hunt sat on watch.  Jaime cared little for the man, and even less when he began asking for Brienne’s hand in marriage, yet he treated him respectfully, as a knight should.  He had kept Brienne alive until this point, after all.  Or was it the other way around?  _Definitely the latter_ , he mused.

“Seven Hells!  Ser Jaime Lannister!  Is that you?” Hyle looked up from the fire he poked at out of boredom.  Jaime smiled, cockily, then nodded, with little else to say to the man.  “I thought you had armies to command and glorious battles to win,” Hunt continued, mirroring his own cocky grin.  Jaime didn’t like seeing his own arrogance on another man’s face.  Especially not this one.

“Perhaps.  But where’s the adventure in that?  Let the Others have the Riverlands!  I can’t send the wench back on a selfish quest for my honor without at least being around to die, too,” Jaime explained to the man half-joking, though unsure why he bothered.

“Ah, If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you’re starting to fancy the big beauty, eh?”  Hunt laughed, his droll tone suggesting it absurd that anyone actually could, certainly not Jaime Lannister.  Jaime half-smiled, saying nothing.

“Whose watch is next?”  He finally asked Hunt, sitting himself next to the fire.

“The beauty herself,” Hunt replied, pointing to where she lay.  “The lad, Pod, he’s been through too much.  The poor boy needs his sleep,” Hunt offered.  Jaime nodded.

“We all have.”

 

After a while, Jaime had grown bored with Hunt’s company.  He already liked the man little, but hearing his stories of traveling with Brienne, and his seemingly endless failed proposals made Jaime’s stomach churn.  In the days after fleeing the Brotherhood, Jaime had gathered that Hunt must be someone from Brienne’s past, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask her about it.  Not with the suggestive way Hunt spoke to her, the side glances the two occasionally shared, the bitterly obvious way Hunt crawled under her skin so easily, or the painfully noticeable absence of her warmth from his bed.  He thought of Connington and liked Hunt less.  Eventually and finally, Hunt’s watch ended and Jaime offered to wake Brienne, granting Hunt some rest.  Hunt accepted easily enough, but with a hint of suspicion.

 

Jaime made his way to Brienne, wrapped in furs, desperately trying to keep warm in the growing cold of night.  Slowly, he reached for her shoulder and shook her awake.  She stirred first, then her eyes opened slowly, half-lidded and saw him.

“Is this a dream?”  Brienne asked groggily.

“Do you dream of me often?” Jaime asked with an arrogant grin spreading across his face.  Brienne said nothing, but sat up, immediately avoiding his gaze.  _Now is not the time to jape._   “It’s time for your watch, my lady,” he explained, simply.

“Why are you here?”  She asked, directly to the point, as usual.  Jaime wasn’t.

“Because the next time you try to be so stupid as to die for my honor, I want to convince you it’s not worth it.  Or at least try.  Stubborn wench as you are, you’d surely ignore me.”  Brienne had no response for his half-concerned quip, and instead studied the glowing, dying embers before her as she rose from the furs.

“We need more firewood,” she announced before leaving the small camp and Jaime behind.  Once again, her strong form disappeared into the trees and darkness around them.  He made no attempt to stop her, and instead sat next to where she had laid, waiting patiently, unsure of what to say once she returned.  After too much time passed, Jaime grew concerned, though he knew it was ridiculous to worry about the wench.  _If not for her, I’d been dead long ago._   Occasionally he wondered in which moment he would have died had she not been around.  By the hands of Hoat?  Starvation?  A fever?  At Harrenhal, flayed?  By the sword of some Brotherhood member falling behind him?  He tried not to think of it any longer.  Yet when she still hadn’t returned, he did begin to worry.  Eventually, he decided he had waited long enough, so he rose and set out to find her.  She had sat on watch just outside of the camp, just outside of the light of the dying embers.

“I thought we needed more firewood,” he asked softly, but almost mocking.  Her head turned to him only slightly, just enough to see a puffy, wet cheek.  The sight of it stabbed him in the belly.  Slowly, he approached without saying another word, resting his hand gently upon her shoulder, but she didn’t stir.  “Wen-- Brienne?” he asked.  Her focus remained on the ground and her feet.  With his one good hand, he steadied himself as he sat on the cold earth next to her, as close as he could.  He nearly shuddered at the sensation of her shoulder lightly grazing against his, while his eyes begged to make contact with hers.  She refused, much more interested in the dark earth below.

“Why did you find us?” she asked again, pressing a bit harder.  He could almost hear her teeth clench.  Jaime said nothing, knowing immediately his first explanation clearly wasn’t convincing.  She spoke again, but this time sounded lost and quiet.  “I hoped that by putting all of this behind me.. by putting you behind me, I could finally forget you..”  As her mouth trembled, a tear fell, shattering on the dirt below.  Almost instinctively, his hand reached for the newly wetted spot on her ruined cheek, wiping it gently with his thumb and his eyes caught hers for a second.  Just long enough to feel a familiar pull deep inside, the same one he always felt on the rare occasion he would let himself imagine her gazing deeply at him.  Her tears had created a sea where sapphires could float and he could simply drown, never caring if he made it out alive.  

Rarely was Jaime Lannister rendered speechless.  Invariably, it seemed he always had something clever to say, but not this time.  Rather, he hoped his actions would speak the words his voice couldn’t as he moved his lips to her ruined cheek, in the spot still wet from her last tear.  He let his mouth linger for a moment, and when he pulled away, he felt his breath grow jagged.  Immediately, she turned to him, sapphire eyes boring deep, searching but not retreating.  Nothing but silence settled between them as he shifted his gaze to her mouth and closed the distance between their lips, slowly, gently moving against hers in a sweet, amorous kiss that asked for nothing more.  She was timid and uncertain at first, but only for a second.  When she let herself give in, he could taste the passion and hunger they had both kept masterfully hidden under a thick layer of apprehension.  Each touch and each meeting of their lips began to feel more like a desperate plea than a polite request.  And each plea grew more desperate as lips clumsily crashed and heavy breaths formed single clouds in the cold air.  Then Brienne pulled away from him suddenly and whispered “No..” leaving an instant empty void inside him.  Confused, he withdrew, but maintained his focus on her, even as she threatened to hide once again.

“I’m sorry, my lady, I didn’t mean to offend--”

“It’s not that,” she interrupted, still breathless.

“Then what is it?” He pressed, softly.  _I know you wanted that as much as I did.  I could taste it._

“This leads to nothing but pain..” before she could finish, he already knew what she would say.  His thoughts immediately turned to a million different things: his white cloak, a Sapphire Isle with no heir, the shame of carrying the Kingslayer’s bastard, or, worst of all, the heaviness of someone you love, bleeding and dying before you.  Somehow he had pushed it all from his mind, ignoring the far-reaching consequences, acting eerily similar to the man he had once been.  Oaths, duty and vows weighed on him, crushing him, until all he could do was rest his head upon her strong shoulder and sigh as she gently stroked the back of his hand with one finger.

“You’re Lord Commander of the Kingsguard now,” she began again.  “You have to set an example, and uphold a code of honor for your men, for the kingdoms.  ..You can’t bed a woman...  Y--,” she paused, turning her eyes away from their hands and sternly to the ground once again.  “You can’t ..love a woman,” her voice was soft and timid, as if waiting for him to laugh cruelly or leave.  Instead, Jaime leaned against her, his only form of strength, as the waves of years of regret swirled, threatening to break him before he could speak.

“I’m afraid I already do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: Okay, I'm going to try my hand at a series. Bear with me, folks.


End file.
